Thatcher,
The sun shines metallic cobbles underfoot today,
A crowd thundering toward golden moments of class solidarity
that tomorrow your papers will call ‘vulgar’.
Wasn’t it always an attraction of repulsion?
We have waited for decades for you to return to your roots
Return to the earth
Return your pearls to the nightstand.
There’s no grieving tonight in Liverpool.
The doves are the colour of milk,
Everyone one of them,
feet dirty amongst the party balloons and beer cans.
28 rounds of confetti for you, dear Lady.
23 years of knowing your face as enemy.
The pavement pulses, beer swigs and old friends hold one another like a welcome home
Hope they blink into one another’s faces.
Coz some of us haven’t seen it since 1974 and some of us Maggie, some of us never knew it at all.
So instead
We burnt you into the air
With our prayers for this day.
After we’d long since stopped praying for justice.
Men shout, dance, Maggie is this what you imagined?
Or did you think your twin set would protect you?
A tinny taste on the tongue, I take up a stick and force out an empty thud to your stomach.
An honour reserved for the gangboss.
Dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Fuck what Owen Jones might think we’re going to dance till dusk and
you’re not even cold, laid in your grave yet babe,
We’re all chavs here, anyway
So there’s no grieving tonight in Liverpool.
Tomorrow the street cleaner
Will brush your bones towards the water.
Tomorrow we will go to work and to school,
Floss our teeth and check our emails.
The day waits like a pill on the tongue, baring headlines of
Paedophile rings, NHS failure, benefits cheats, Syria and Iraq, the Gateway to Jihad, the Rich Kids of Instagram and Blair, forever Tony Blair with his pit of a face, teeth peaking out like a joke worse than war.
Maggie, can we just have This. One. Victory?
All I can think is ‘The lady is not for turning’
Though the likeness of her face in parliament is daunting
The lady is not returning
The lady is haunting.
So forgive me if there’s no grieving tonight in Liverpool.
The sun shines metallic cobbles underfoot today,
A crowd thundering toward golden moments of class solidarity
that tomorrow your papers will call ‘vulgar’.
Wasn’t it always an attraction of repulsion?
We have waited for decades for you to return to your roots
Return to the earth
Return your pearls to the nightstand.
There’s no grieving tonight in Liverpool.
The doves are the colour of milk,
Everyone one of them,
feet dirty amongst the party balloons and beer cans.
28 rounds of confetti for you, dear Lady.
23 years of knowing your face as enemy.
The pavement pulses, beer swigs and old friends hold one another like a welcome home
Hope they blink into one another’s faces.
Coz some of us haven’t seen it since 1974 and some of us Maggie, some of us never knew it at all.
So instead
We burnt you into the air
With our prayers for this day.
After we’d long since stopped praying for justice.
Men shout, dance, Maggie is this what you imagined?
Or did you think your twin set would protect you?
A tinny taste on the tongue, I take up a stick and force out an empty thud to your stomach.
An honour reserved for the gangboss.
Dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Fuck what Owen Jones might think we’re going to dance till dusk and
you’re not even cold, laid in your grave yet babe,
We’re all chavs here, anyway
So there’s no grieving tonight in Liverpool.
Tomorrow the street cleaner
Will brush your bones towards the water.
Tomorrow we will go to work and to school,
Floss our teeth and check our emails.
The day waits like a pill on the tongue, baring headlines of
Paedophile rings, NHS failure, benefits cheats, Syria and Iraq, the Gateway to Jihad, the Rich Kids of Instagram and Blair, forever Tony Blair with his pit of a face, teeth peaking out like a joke worse than war.
Maggie, can we just have This. One. Victory?
All I can think is ‘The lady is not for turning’
Though the likeness of her face in parliament is daunting
The lady is not returning
The lady is haunting.
So forgive me if there’s no grieving tonight in Liverpool.
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